


Life as a Liability

by skadi_zlata



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:58:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skadi_zlata/pseuds/skadi_zlata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John brings a new flatmate to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock reacts exactly the way John expects him to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life as a Liability

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta [goldenbuttons](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldenbuttons/pseuds/Goldenbuttons)!

“He stays, no matter what you might say,” John proclaimed with a warning in his voice. The funny thing was, Sherlock hadn’t uttered a word yet. But John assumed that he would, eventually, and chose to set things straight in advance. It seemed both futile and undignified to protest and to assure John he wasn’t going to throw the new flatmate out.

The cause of the one-sided dispute was lying on an improvised bed next to the fireplace. Small and pathetic, a warm lump called Gladstone. Its appearance at Baker Street was entirely the fault of John’s new girlfriend. The one with the nose – what was her name? She said she would be away until the end of the week, so John was to look after her pet, a bulldog pup. How romantic.

“I’m not cleaning after it,” Sherlock declared from the sofa.

John snorted. “You never clean anything.”

Well, that much was true.

“Have you ever had a pet?” John asked, absently scratching and stroking the puppy behind the delicate ears.

Sherlock lingered for a moment before answering. “Hm. I suppose you could say that I have. A dog. But not for long, not really.”

_It wasn’t a pretty creature – clearly a mongrel, lop-eared, brown and white in colour, and with a very clumsy gait like it was slightly limping due to some injury. It accepted, after some hesitation, a piece of sugar Sherlock had in his pocket for some reason he’d already forgotten. Having thus sealed the alliance, it followed him home, unexpectedly trusting, though it surely had seen a lot of trouble during its homeless life._

“What did you do to it?” John chuckled.

It was only a joke, but it felt like a stab, coldness spreading across the chest from where it had hit. Sherlock shrugged, though John wasn’t looking at him and thus couldn’t see this excessively nonchalant gesture. “Not much. As I’ve already said – I didn’t have it for long.”

“What was its name?” Let John pursue an unwanted theme – and he’d go at it like a bulldog.

“What does it matter?” Sherlock snapped.

_The name was Toby. He just… looked like Toby. The way John looked like John. There was nothing fancy about this dog, but he regarded Sherlock with calm amiability, like he wanted to make friends, which was pleasantly surprising – no one ever did._

John was now muttering something to Gladstone, some endearing nonsense. It was a show-off for Sherlock. In the sense, “If you’re not in the mood for talking – all right, fine, I’ve got someone else to talk to.”

A hollow feeling in Sherlock’s chest was growing stronger. The question John had asked – was it really the first thing to come to mind? Surely, John wouldn’t suppose he could do experiments on a living thing… Or would he?

Finally, John turned to him again. “Come here. Just give it a try. Pet him. I’m sure Gladstone wouldn’t mind.”

The last thing Sherlock wanted to do was to touch the damn puppy. He’d rather stroke John’s hair, so shortly trimmed it must feel ticklish. But he suspected that John wouldn’t appreciate his curiosity.

“You keep an alphabetized collection of dog hair in the bathroom, for god’s sake,” John continued reasoning. “Maybe it’s not so bad having an actual dog in the flat, huh? For a change?”

Sherlock pretended he was engrossed in reading a black leather volume that had the word “poisons” in its title. Couldn’t John see he was busy?

Having finally realized that Sherlock had no intention of leaving the sofa, John sighed, like he usually did when Sherlock refused to act like a human being. “Right. Well. ‘m sorry, Gladstone. It seems he doesn’t like you as much as I do. That’s our consulting detective for you. But don’t mind him. He’s always like that. He’d rather load our fridge with dead and smelly things, and then dissect them on our kitchen table, the whole night long, than play with a cute puppy like you. You’re not his type, you’re still breathing.”

Sherlock made a half-audible sound of indignation. Why _should_ he like this particular dog? For what reasons? It was not like he would usually express immediate affection to men or women he’d just met, go hugging, et cetera, so why should it be different with an animal, why all this cooing around it just because it was small and _cute_ , as John put it? Well some dogs and men could be an exception, but it didn’t happen that often.

_He managed to sneak Toby into the house without anyone noticing. He wanted to make Toby look more or less presentable before showing him to mummy. Because well… no matter what charm the small dog possessed, a thorough washing was in order. Toby endured the whole ordeal with stoic dignity as Sherlock shampooed him in the bathroom, and then toweled him dry. Now Toby’s white spots looked considerably whiter – and Mycroft’s towel not so clean as it had been._

_It also seemed like Toby could use some nourishing. “Dinner?” Sherlock suggested. They could share some cheese and biscuits and maybe something more substantial. He wouldn’t usually eat this time of day, unless someone reminded him, but with company, it didn’t seem so dull._

_It was so much better than having imaginary friends._

“Let’s get you something to eat,” John said. Sherlock, still absorbed in reading his book of poisons, was about to murmur, “Not hungry” – but realized, with a start, that John wasn’t talking to him.

That was annoying. Infuriating.

But he wasn’t jealous, of course not. Why would he be jealous? He wasn’t even jealous of John’s girlfriends.

As soon as John was out in the kitchen, Sherlock cast a quick glance at John’s new crush. Freed of John’s overprotective attention, the puppy dared to have a look around. First, it targeted a metallic leg of the nearest chair and gnawed at it for a while, but in the end, it didn’t seem very tasty. After that, Gladstone sniffed at a dusty pile of magazines on the floor. It wasn’t of much interest either.

Sherlock was determined to ignore the creature, but soon he found himself contemplating Gladstone’s progress – from under the lowered eyelashes. The puppy got closer and closer until it stopped right in front of him. It probed at Sherlock’s Persian slipper (while Sherlock’s foot was still inside it), and then, clearly worn out by a long walk around the room, lay its head on it – a rather heavy head for such a small dog – and obviously decided to have a nap again. Sherlock watched the sleepy pup warily for some time – and then, with a sigh, resumed his reading.

_He wasn’t composed enough to reconcile with his loss decently. His histrionics must have been pathetic. Sherlock remembered a grimace of disgust on mummy’s face. “You’re a grown-up boy, for god’s sake.” Yes, it was a childish outburst, the one and only he’d ever indulged in, and all because of the wailing Toby being taken away._

_Of course, a lecture on inappropriate behaviour followed. When Mycroft came home, he tried to reason with his wayward little brother too. He talked of germs and parasites and dirt on the carpets. And precious antique furniture chewed and clawed. And also, the mere futility of getting attached to pets in general – they are only here for a few years, Sherlock, and then they die, so why bother at all._

_It was all true, but at the time, it didn’t seem to matter compared to a promise of friendship that was denied to him._

_He’d learned his lesson that day, though. Not about germs, or parasites – he probably knew more about them than Mycroft ever would in his tidy, immaculate, boring life. It was about not bringing home living things. They were a liability to him. Later, it turned out that bringing dead things into the house could cause the same amount of disapproval, but it didn’t hurt at all when they got thrown away._

“Oh!” John stopped in the doorway, regarding Gladstone as he was still sleeping peacefully, with his head on Sherlock’s slipper. “I see you’re getting along well after all.”

“Did you think I’d kick your dear pet as soon as it got near me?” Sherlock inquired coldly, dropping the book to his lap. “Mind, I might be still planning a cold-blooded murder. Poisons, see.” He tapped at the book title. “Because that’s what I would do, wouldn’t I?”

He picked up the book again – but he couldn’t read anymore, acutely aware of every sound in the room. A soft shuffle – it was John shifting his weight, uncomfortably. A muffled click against the wooden board – he must have put the bowl with something edible on the floor. Footsteps. Uncertain. Closer.

“Sherlock… Look… I’m sorry. Some stuff I’d said – I was just teasing you. It’s not that I meant it.”

The leather cushions squeaked as John sat down on the sofa, beside him. For a while, he was silent and Sherlock was struggling not to steal a side glance at him. Finally, John reached out a hand, and his palm came to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder – a comforting presence.

“I just thought… As Gladstone is here anyway, we could have fun together. But… You know, it’s only temporary, just for a few days. And then there will be two of us again.”

Sherlock could have stated the obvious – that it was a temporary thing too. In a longer term, everything was. But John’s hand was warm and solid on his shoulder, and he didn’t dare to say anything, not to spoil the moment.


End file.
